


kitty corner from paradise

by maggierachael



Series: grade school games [5]
Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 03, apparently i just have a knack for getting in the heads of pedro's soft boy characters, are we surprised at this point, but have those feelings anyway, javier pena is TIRED and deserves to REST, listen y'all, more dessa inspired bullshit, this is meaningless fluff without plot, will this go anywhere? absolutely not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22455262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggierachael/pseuds/maggierachael
Summary: real [ree-uh l, reel]: (adjective) not merely ostensible, nominal, or apparent, existing or occurring as fact; actual rather than imaginary, ideal, or fictitious:There is not much in the way of what Javi still believes in. But he believes in her.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Original Female Character(s)
Series: grade school games [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639453
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48





	kitty corner from paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. I wrote this at one in the morning after a long talk with a friend about how poor Javi needs a REST after the stressful mess that was season three, and how the boy deserves to have somebody in his life who actually gives a shit about him. The bulk of this was written in about thirty minutes, so it's not the cleanest, but I had feelings and needed a place to put them. Enjoy.

The house is silent. Well, silent except for the noise of the air conditioning filtering out the ever-present Texas heat, but Javi’s used to that by now. 

The house is also dark, consumed by the inky blackness of night long before he’d crawled into bed. Real, true blackness, not like the grey-black haze of streetlit night in Bogotá. She lived in the middle of nowhere, only just within the limits of the school district she taught at, so the darkness was real. He could barely see a foot in front of his face. He certainly couldn’t see her.

But eyes could lie anyway, and he could still feel. Touch was about the only sense he felt he could still trust. The rest were burnt out, sizzled to a crisp after five years of paperwork and following ice cold trails and higher-ups running him down until he felt like they’d struck bone. His intuition had been burnt away like a firestarter, the heat scorching his eyes and his ears and everything else he’d relied on until they were ash. 

But touch, he could trust. They couldn’t burn that away. Touch was tangible, and tangible was good. Tangible meant he could feel the rise and fall of the chest his hand currently settled on, the solid assurance that the woman asleep next to him was breathing. Was alive. Was real. 

Not that he’d ever doubted she was real. She’d box his ears if he ever suggested otherwise, and he’d seen what she could do with a paper cutter enough times to know he’d end up on the wrong end of one if he spoke anything like that. No, he knew she was real. As real as the blankets half-draped over the both of them, as real as the old oak headboard his head rested against. Of that, he had no doubt. 

All he had trouble believing was the fact that they were tangled up in the same bed. 

But the hand ghosting over her ribcage gave him all the facts he needed. As did his head, currently nestled in the crook of her neck even though he knew he’d wake up with a crick in the morning. (He was a federal agent. Governments liked facts. He’d gotten used to it.) What felt like a dream was, in fact, reality, and sometimes Javi wondered what kind of old world god he’d unwittingly done a favor for in order to end up in this timeline. Surely none of those lived in the DEA. 

“Are you...counting my ribs?” 

Her voice was soft from where the bedsheets muffled it, distorting the sound and making her sound far away, even though he could feel her under his hand. The press of calloused fingertips along her side stilled, then vanished before they could solidify themselves into evidence. Years of playing dirty had taught him how to hide that kind of thing well. (Sometimes all you could afford was a metaphorical whore’s bath. Another thing he’d gotten used to.) 

He shuffled once, twice, shifting his head to avoid the crick he’d been anticipating and losing the count he’d very much been keeping. 

“...no?” 

Another distant-sounding voice, and this time he couldn’t feel anything to confirm it’s distance otherwise, now that his hand was gone. This time, a laugh. Slurred with sleep, but still pretty. Just like the rest of her. 

"You’re a terrible liar.” 

The voice turned towards him, closer now. He can’t fight the statement — she knows him too well. She’d’ve made a good detective, picking out tremulous notes in voices like that. He supposed that’s what made her such a good teacher. 

That, and her kindness.

It’s her turn to to tuck her head into him now. That’s how they work. Always in equals. Always had. He still wondered how the scales hadn’t tipped over the years. How she hadn’t run screaming by now. How she’d run the exact opposite direction. 

Right back to him. 

Always.   


Her hand mirrors his own from before, and he shudders. Hers is tiny, tracing against his own ribs like wind on a summer day. If he hadn’t known better, he’d mistake it for a strong kick of the air conditioner against his skin. But touch is real. She is real. He can feel on his skin and in his heart, and he knows that it is real. 

The love he feels for her is very, very real.

**Author's Note:**

> Have I written Narcos fic before? No. Was that a moderate bit of a mess? Yes. Am I still in my feelings? Absolutely.


End file.
